"I am a traveler of both time and space, to be where I have been.
To sit with Elders of the gentle race, this world has seldom seen."
The Empire began to fire, and as Junkers watched, the fire was not directed toward the ragtag band of fighting ships that somehow still managed to call itself the 'Cashmerian Navy.' The fire from the Empire's ships did not attack the small ship Southern Cross, either. The fire was directed at the most important place for his people: Cashmere itself.
The Empire fired mercilessly down upon the planet, the long lancers reaching out and detonating anything they touched.
And Commander Junkers was helpless to do anything about it.
Junkers sat upright in his bed with more of a cry than a scream. He was drenched in sweat, even with only flannel sheets covering him. That and some underpants, of course. Once Junkers was calm, his heart back to normal, he sat up. Could it be true? he asked himself, is Cashmere destroyed? No, his consciousness told him, that is impossible. If Cashmere was destroyed, then where in the world was he?
On Cashmere, of course. He was on Cashmere. So, unless he was dead, dying, whatever, Cashmere was still a planet.
"But for how long?" he asked aloud.
It was an odd dream indeed; not everyone dreamed of the destruction of the planet every day, especially if they lived on it. Junkers, a little upset about the dream, turned to the clock. It read six-thirty in the morning.
The dream still bugged him as he rose. He was in the Navy, and could take the dream two ways: It could be a simple dream, just something that happens to pop up every once in a while. It could have been that.
But he was in the Navy, and could take it another way.
"Could I have seen what will occur?" he asked himself as he stepped into the shower.
The dream nagged at him through breakfast. Even though his stomach was ready to take on anything he threw at it, Junkers ate very little. He did not want to be sick if the dream occurred again or he blanked out; he had seen something along those lines occur before.
*****
Zim was walking down toward the last level of the subway station when he got a glimpse of his commanding officer.
"Commander Junkers!" he cried, but he received no reply. Not even a careful nod in his direction. Zim ran toward his commander, just before the doors shut on the car.
"Commander?" Junkers suddenly snapped out of whatever daze he was in and looked at Zim.
"Good morning," he said. Zim looked at the man with an odd expression but said nothing. Zim felt something wrong, but being a subordinate, could not bring it up.
"Good morning, sir," Zim replied cheerfully. "Have you dined?"
"In my apartment, yes." The two took their seats. The car was relatively empty; most of the people who had gotten off were part of the night shift. Zim felt like his Commander was under hypnosis.
"Sir?" Zim asked. Junkers looked down at him. Now he saw what was wrong. Junkers' eyes were bloodshot and red. "Is everything all right?" Zim added, wishing he had not, "you look tired."
Junkers thought for a moment. He almost blurted out his thoughts right then and there but refrained from doing so out of respect for his command. He couldn't tell Zim! What would Zim say? What would the reply be?
"Nothing," he replied innocently, "for the first time in my life I realize the Truth."
"What Truth?" asked Zim. He didn't mean to pry into his Commander's business, but still...
"That... That the Truth is fabricated, modified to give the people of society what they want to hear."
"You mean that the government changes their information to give people the information what they think they need to hear?"
"Exactly," replied Junkers, "I was told that the Hercules, the ship my father was on, and others, were sent to routine patrol. I don't know why I didn't think that they were destroyed. I was brainwashed."
"Agreed. As we all were, in the beginning. But once we, as Naval officers, began to realize that we were losing, we lost our innocence and the war bogged down."
"I... I just hope that I don't wind up dead, like the other Commanders."
Zim was flabbergasted.
"How... Sir? How did you know they died?"
"I could tell. The way you and the others treated me." Zim looked at the floor.
"My apologies."
"No, no, I understand," Junkers replied. "You have become accustomed to a certain type of Commander, the washout type. I am just the opposite."
"I agree," replied Zim, "you are different from the others."
"Zim, I am going to try and be as fair as I can. I am going to try to keep everyone together in this. I expect everyone else, to do the same."
"I understand perfectly, sir," replied Zim, still looking at the floor. There was silence for a few moments.
"How... if you don't mind me asking, how did the other Commanders on the Bridge of the Southern Cross handled things?"
"They all shook in their boots," Zim replied, "and no one lasted one single combat maneuver. And not one of them psychologically survived the first battle."
*****
"I will not sleep." Junkers' weary voice carried to the ceiling and reverberated there. He had not had sleep in nearly two days and was growing tired. He had never done this to himself before. Junkers drained another pot of coffee and began to fill it again. He sat down and began to scribble into his diary.
"Day two of avoiding the dreams. I will not sleep. I cannot. I am too terrified to sleep. If the destruction of Cashmere will come through my dreams, then I refuse to sleep."
Junkers rose again and drained the pot of coffee. He sat down and began to watch the holovision.
*****
Junkers reported on the Bridge of the Southern Cross the next morning, weary and woozy. Zim looked at him.
"Sir, are you all right?"
"I'm fine," Junkers muttered, "just tired, that's all." Zim glanced at the radar officer. The woman's fears were true. She had told him that she did not feel that Junkers would be able to take up the stress of the battle. She felt that he would undergo a severe psychological trauma from witnessing the battle. As it turned out, in Zim's mind, the woman had been right.
"Sir, please, have a seat," Zim said. He walked over to the radar woman. "Send a dispatch to General Daltor. Get him here at once."
"Aye," replied the woman.
Junkers sat down and tried to focus. Zim stared at him.
"What seems to be the trouble?" asked Zim.
"Nothing... Just dreams, that's all."
"Care to talk about them, sir?"
"No."
Zim frowned. Junkers looked at the floor, as if he were guilty of something.
"Sir," said Zim," were these dreams of the battle."
"No," replied Junkers," I saw…" Just then, Daltor, Redd's Commander, walked into the room.
"What's going on," he demanded.
"Sir," said Zim, "our commanding officer is unfit for duty." Junkers stood up.
"I'm fine," he mumbled. The General grabbed Junkers' chin and looked into the man's eyes.
"Like hell you're fine. I thought you would be able to handle this."
"No," Junkers said," you don't understand..."
"Put this man on the casualty list at once." And without a second thought, Daltor walked out the door.
Junkers stared after the man and then turned to Zim. "I am fit for duty," he said.
"I will be the judge of that. My decision was in the best interest of the rest of the crew."
Junkers nodded. "And I suppose you think I will die soon?"
"Most likely."
"I promise you this, you pathetic excuse for an officer: I will be back."
"Maybe... spiritually."
And with the last remark, Junkers walked out the door.
*****
Junkers threw his uniform into the corner of the room and collapsed in a heap on his bed.
"Maybe I should..." he said, thinking about not sleeping again. But then he decided that he might as well sleep, hoping that death came on swift wings for him.
He slept ... but not contentedly.
He was on a grassy plain that was as different from Cashmere as Cashmere was from space. All around him were lush, green pastures.
"Looking for someone?" The gentle voice made him turn around. The table and those chairs were not there before! How-?
"Who are you?" Junkers found himself asking. The gentle voice fit the speaker. He was an old man in khakis, had a bald head and held a walking stick in his right hand. He was seated in one of the chairs, and looked very content with his own life.
"I am Redor, a missionary of sorts," replied the man.
"Where... Where am I?"
"You are on the planet Bartr," replied Redor. The man looked around. "Not one of the more interesting worlds I've been on," he said carefully. The man leaned against his walking stick and hoisted himself to a standing position.
"I've been rude. My apologies. As I said, I am Redor, and I am a traveler of both time and space, well, to be where I have been."
"A time traveler?"
"Mr. Junkers, you are one of the Chosen ones."
"Chosen ones?" Junkers asked, feeling redundant.
"I hate to sound like a dictator," replied Redor," but you must go to the real Bartr, where you will speak with the Elders."
"The Masters?"
"No, the Elders. And where did you hear of the Masters?"
"Nowhere... Um... Nothing."
"Well you can hide things from me, but you cannot hide things from the Elders. They can read your thoughts."
"ESP?" asked Junkers.
"Not exactly, but we won't get into that. Mr. Junkers, as I said, you are one of the chosen ones. Would you like to know what that means?" Junkers forced a nod.
"But I... I don't understand."
"I know you don't. That is irrelevant. The name "Chosen one," or the definition, basically means that you are selected."
"Selected for what?" asked Junkers.
"Smart," commented Redor. "You believe only what you see, right?"
"How can I see something that hasn't happened?"
"Your vision of the destruction of your world is a signal, Junkers. A signal that only you can interpret."
"Is it a literal interpretation?"
"That is for you to decide."
To be continued...